


Minutes and Protocols

by quipquipquip



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quipquipquip/pseuds/quipquipquip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being Tim is difficult. Nobody knows that better than Kon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minutes and Protocols

"C'mon, man. Seriously. I have to get ready to go," Tim said, frustration hardening his tone. He sat squarely on Conner's stomach, arms crossed defiantly over his chest.

"You said you've got an hour before the car service gets here," Conner pointed out, equally frustrated. He tried not to sound too put-out, but he failed. He wasn't that great at masking his emotions in the first place, and his stupid best friend/partner/teammate/pretty-much-boyfriend brought out the highest highs and the lowest lows in his temper.

"I did. And I do. But I have to take a shower and put on my suit and finish up a couple of emails and---"

"Do you _have_ to?" Conner asked. The question almost exploded out of him, chased by a heavy sigh. "Never mind. I know that you do. Wayne propriety, blah blah blah. I know."

Tim sighed, leaning back against Conner's knees.

"Can we talk about this later? Please? I can't do this right now."

This was not a new argument between them. As Tim's best friend and partner, Conner had an unspoken list of responsibilities. It was a role that he took happily and willingly, even though it wasn't one that he got to play outside of their apartment. Tim wasn't comfortable with anyone knowing that they were a hell of a lot more than just roommates, and Conner understood---he wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea of the media blowout that would follow Red Robin and Supes flying out of the closet. Touches were reserved for the most private section of their private lives, and that was just the way it was. Even with masks on, they had an image to uphold.

But Conner did his best to be a good boyfriend, and that meant carefully handling Tim's semi-annual breakdowns. Tim thrived on stress, but he had a bad habit of piling it on thick and holding it all in until he imploded.. Being a good boyfriend to Tim Drake-Wayne meant seeing the signs of a meltdown, angling him toward a nice, quiet space, and helping mitigate the blast when he inevitably lost it.

His Boy Wonder juggled no fewer than two dozen balls at any given time. He was a lot of things to a lot of people, and he was physically incapable of letting anyone down. To the League, he was Red Robin, the brightest part of the Batman's legacy. He was a leader---the one they called when shit had hit the proverbial fan on a cosmic level. To his peers at Met U, he was Tim Drake, the good-natured go-getter who completely screwed over the grading curve. To Gotham's elite, he was Tim Wayne, the ward of the late great Bruce Wayne and the major shareholder in Wayne Enterprises. Most people had trouble living one life, and Tim somehow managed three.

It was the Tim Wayne life that was the hardest on him. He didn't have to be Tim Wayne often, but every event that called him into the limelight was coupled with birdboy-breaking stress.

It hadn't always been that way. Conner knew why and what had changed, but he didn't touch on it. Bringing up the whole 'hey, going home again?' would've stressed him out more, so he pretended not to notice when Tim started rising through his usual stages of wigging out. Every May and November were exactly the same: about three weeks before the Wayne charity galas, Tim began winding himself up.

It wasn't pretty.

Stage one was realization. The galas were the same time every year, but Tim---being Tim---didn’t realize it until his computer popped up an automated reminder to take his suit to the cleaners. He wouldn’t mention in to Conner, but he’d start psyching himself up. Stage two was denial. He'd pile up projects like he wanted to hide underneath them and never come out again. Stage three was deferment. He'd organize everything in his life from cellphone contacts to spice racks, and god help him if Conner interrupted. Tim would sink into Super Hermit mode and any attempts to distract him turned into a fight.

They didn't fight very often anymore, but Conner knew that he had at least two big ones to look forward to every year.

And he hated that. He hated it because for the most part, Tim wasn't mad at him. They were stupid fights about stupid things, the climax of Tim reaching his breaking point. He was beating himself up about never taking him to the galas _with_ him, and he could only keep that vicious guilt under wraps for so long.

Every time, Conner hoped that it'd be different. He didn't hope too hard, though, because he _knew_ his Robin. This current fight had started when he'd semi-successfully pulled him away from the computer and into some mid-afternoon lazy makeouts. He almost got away with it, too---he got Tim out of his pants and shirt before he glanced at his watch, realized the time, and went into meltdown mode.

In that context, Conner wasn't sure what being a good boyfriend meant. Should he just pretend that he was okay with them being the super-love that dare not be spoken of in spandex-clad company? Should he demand that they stop playing the 'just friends' card? Was it his place to push the matter either way?

"Sorry," Conner sighed, flopping back on the carpet. He squeezed his eyes shut. If he looked at his long, scarred legs or his flat stomach---and the inviting trail of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his boxers---he'd press his luck and the fight would only get worse. "It's just---I just---I hate seeing you like this, man. It's not you. Why do you think you've gotta be someone else for _them?_ You're Red Fucking Robin. You save the world. If we're going to talk about charity work, they've got nothing on you."

Tim looked at him--- _really_ looked at him, the kind of analytical stare that made Conner wonder if it was possible to pick up x-ray vision through sheer force of will.

"What?" Conner asked with a nervous chuckle. "Look, I just meant that it's none of their business if they think you su---"

"Get dressed," Tim interrupted briskly.

 _"What?"_

"I'm cashing in my plus-one privileges. You're coming with me," he said, like it was no big deal.

But Conner knew better. He knew that it was a humungous deal, and that it wasn't a decision that he was making lightly. They'd put borders on their relationship, careful even in front of the pseudo-faceless public crowds. Being closeted was kind of a part of the whole heroic lifestyle, and Tim was about as private about his life as it got.

So, asking him to come with him to a _very public_ event was a big-ass deal. Possibly the biggest ass among all possible big-ass deals. The Grand Poobah of big-ass deals. He was briefly floored by the enormity of what he was saying---what he was offering.

Tim was saying---in Tim-speak, which he was pretty good at deciphering---that he wanted to be seen with him, and screw what people made of it.

"I've got a suit?" Conner asked, because he wasn't sure he could touch on all the complicated feelings and shit that came with Tim nominating him as his plus-one.

"You do," he said, pawing his hands through his messy hair. He smiled slightly. "Well. You do _now."_

There wasn't much that Tim did that was by accident, or by impulse. He had to wonder how long he'd been planning to invite him to go along---if the suit had been in storage for a while, or if Tim had decided that this would be the occasion of their triumphant and completely understated outing. Red Robin's freakish planning and scheming frustrated him and amazed him by turns. This time, it was a good thing. It showed how invested and sure about _them_ that he really was.

"As boyfriends go," Conner told him, squeezing the outsides of his thighs. He never got tired of how good they felt when hugged around his middle. "You're pretty awesome. Not that I've had other boyfriends, but still."

"I know. Get dressed. We're supposed to be there in an hour."

Conner grinned, propping himself up on his elbows and sneaking warm fingers up the hem of Tim's shirt again. "So, hey. Breaking news, Tim. _I can fly."_

"I know that," Tim grumbled, but he still could feel him shiver as his fingers crawled inexorably upward. Conner brushed the callused pad of his thumb over his nipple; Tim's throat rolled with a reflexive hard swallow. "Your point is?"

"Since I'm gonna be your date anyway, I'll fly us there. It'd take like four seconds."

"Actually, it'd take you---"

"No! Bad!" Conner said, clapping a hand over his mouth. Tim rolled his eyes---that was the same tone he used when chasing Krypto out of the neighbor's flower beds.

Whatever he tried to say came out as "hrm-mphmhh" behind Conner's palm.

"Cool it with the math," he said, very seriously. "Give your upper brain a rest before the party. It'll take us like three seconds to fly there and fifteen minutes to shower and get dressed. That leaves us with a whoooole lot of minutes to burn."

Tim continued to frown at him, then licked his palm when he wouldn't remove his hand. He could hear his pulse drum a rapid beat in his chest, through his veins.

"If I let you talk again, you're not allowed to say anything too smart. Brilliant speeches about feelings waste time. Got it?"

Tim rolled his eyes again, then nodded, so he dropped the clamp over his mouth. He framed his hands against the sharp angles of his hips, flopping back onto the carpet.

"We have forty-two minutes and counting," Tim informed him, and pulled his shirt off over his head. It turned his messy hair into a static halo of cowlicks; Conner dug his fingers in and grinned. "Set your watch."

Conner did as he was told---who was he to say no when he had a lap full of Boy Wonder?---and purposefully set it for two hours. They were going to be fashionably late, and there wasn't a damn thing that Tim could do about it.


End file.
